


Safety

by orphan_account



Category: House, MD - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-22
Updated: 2010-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From House's POV - how he feels about living with Wilson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safety

**Title:** Safety  
**Author:** Lola [](http://lauriestein.livejournal.com/profile)[**lauriestein**](http://lauriestein.livejournal.com/)  
**Fandom:** House, MD  
**Pairing:** House/Wilson  
**Genre:** Angst, pre-slash  
**Rating:** PG13  
**Prompt:** #17 - a mayfly @ [](http://community.livejournal.com/story_lottery/profile)[**story_lottery**](http://community.livejournal.com/story_lottery/)  
**Summary:** From House's POV - how he feels about living with Wilson.  
**Spoilers:** Everything up to where we are in season 6x05  
**Word Count:** ~1450  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of these characters, I'm just playing and will put them back unbroken!  
**A/N:** My first attempt at slash, which I've been meaning to get around to for AGES. But being my first time, I've gone for wistful, rather than going all the way. Unbeta'd, so feel free to spank me in comments if necessary.

  


_   
**Fic: Safety, House/Wilson, PG13**   
_

The chicken tastes of garlic, of lemon, the subtlest hint of cracked black pepper, and home.  Careful not to show his appreciation, House clears the plate with sloppy speed, enjoying the grimaces from Wilson as his fork grinds carelessly against the china.

  


 

House’s own kitchen experiment is over, his slavish devotion to one perfect ragout discarded like so many other diversions.  Wilson is the real gourmet, one who doesn’t study recipes from twelve different books.  He’s the type who gathers seemingly random ingredients and makes an effortless meal that makes House glad to come home in the evenings.

 

If House were the type to express those inconvenient chemical balances called emotions, he might turn to Wilson one Sunday morning over cornflakes and the Times and tell him that this is the first time in years he’s felt safe.

 

Maybe the first time he’s really felt anything since Stacy left, since his days became a haze borne of pain or its palliatives.

 

Wilson would no doubt get that misty-eyed look that he reserves for the bravest little cancer kids, or when Cuddy brings her squalling brat into the hospital.  Wilson coos over the strange little lump of a human, fulfilling Cuddy’s expectations that her minions will provide free childcare while she tries to pretend her life hasn’t changed.  House is in no doubt that his best friend lies firmly on the ‘sap’ end of the scale about that kind of thing, no matter how much better he’s gotten at sarcasm and deflection.

 

So he doesn’t say much of anything, other than to bitch about the lumpiness of the sofa cushions, or to mock Wilson’s preference for pastel-colored shirts.  He also doesn’t mention the fact that it’s weird they should be living in Amber’s apartment, her only-slightly-feminine touch apparent at every turn.

 

House doesn’t like to be reminded of his failures, even though with Nolan’s help he is able to process them a little better.  Sure, acceptance is a long way off, but the day he settles for screwing up and being okay with it is the day he’ll take a match and set fire to his newly regained medical license.

 

 

In truth, he doesn’t like to be reminded of Amber at all.  She was the first one who really made him think he could lose Wilson completely.  Wilson had loved her more than any of his vapid ex-wives, and though House joked around about it being rooted in her similarities to himself, he also knew that left him in no position to compete.

 

And the Amber of his hallucinations hadn’t let him forget it.  Not content with taunting him about sobriety, about Cuddy, she had displayed every private thought he’d tried so hard not to acknowledge.

 

Like wondering what it would be like to kiss Wilson.  If his best friend would return the kiss, or pull back in disgust and punch him out.  If Wilson had ever thought about House while fucking a woman, as House secretly had over the years with the prostitutes he took perverse pleasure in bragging about.

 

Wild, drunken nights and locker rooms had provided House with enough material to fantasize, if he chose to.  He’d never caught Wilson looking at him with anything other than mockery or concern, and the last thing he wanted to consider was rejection.

 

Yeah, it was probably one of those things that Nolan expected him to discuss.  But the wily bastard had been off his game since the loss of his father, making it easier for House to withhold on one or two things he had no intention of ever analyzing.  It wasn’t like anyone really expected him to give up everything just for a little sanity, he would always be too smart for that.

 

When the damn Canadian causes all the fuss, House feels an urgency to fix it that he doesn’t dare express.  Let Wilson think it’s simply a pathological need to meddle, to win.  Don’t ever let him know that the thought of not living with him, despite the backaches and being expected to do the occasional lot of dishes, struck a kind of cold terror into House that he hadn’t felt since Kutner’s ghost appeared in Cuddy’s office. 

 

Of the few grudging things he’s learned since Mayfield, accepting limitations is proving to be easier than he expected.  He can’t cure everyone, his leg isn’t going to magically be better one day, and if he wants to be happy he has to do something about it for himself.  

 

Not that any of that is the kind of thing a guy can bring up over chicken and potatoes.  House refuses to sit at the table, propping his plate on a cushion that balances on his still-aching leg.  The first couple of nights Wilson maintained a sulky position at the dinner table, his hunched posture from the cafeteria in evidence.  On the third day he surrendered, pulling his tie off with a sigh and settling on the other end of the sofa, a dinner tray his one concession to formality. 

 

They eat in an easy sort of silence, the television removing any need for small talk.  House is still adept at avoiding hard work, so they have plenty of time to gossip at the hospital. 

 

Tonight, he notices that the dark circles under Wilson’s eyes are a little more pronounced, more like bruises than the usual faint smudges.  A good friend would comment on that, or the obvious tension in his shoulders.  Maybe ask about all the times he’s barged into Wilson’s office only to find his friend with his head in his hands, apparently upset about something.

 

But House doesn’t ask, not even when the puzzle-solving part of his brain kicks into overdrive and begins nagging him every other minute.  He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, what’s making Wilson unhappy because he can’t bear the possibility that the answer could be House himself. 

 

Wilson goes to bed early, but everyone does in comparison to a frequent insomniac like House.  House contents himself with a couple of journals, playing a little electric guitar with his headphones plugged in, pacing until the ache in his leg is bearable enough to consider sleep.

 

It’s on his pre-bed trip to the bathroom that he hears it.  A snuffling sound, not unlike the truffle pigs he saw on the Discovery Channel a few weeks ago.  Bladder trumps curiosity, but on the way back out he can still hear the faint sounds coming from Wilson’s bedroom, and what choice does he have but to investigate?

 

House opens the door cautiously, waiting to be yelled at.  There’s no shout though, just what definitely sounds like someone crying and trying to hide it.

 

He limps over to the bed, the only light in the room spilling in from the hallway.  Wilson has his back turned, on the far side of the mattress.  At a loss, House stands there awkwardly, awaiting some kind of conversation, perhaps an invitation.

 

When nothing is forthcoming, he sits on the edge of the bed, his leg glad of the respite.  With trepidation, he reaches out for Wilson, patting him on the arm with what he hopes is a comforting touch.

 

Wilson stops crying, eventually.  Sensing his job is done, House removes his hand and tries to stand up.  He’s stopped halfway by Wilson’s muffled command of ‘stay’.

 

There it is, panic, adrenalin: the typical fight or flight response.  House doesn’t necessarily want to be on the same bed as Wilson, but he can’t bring himself to bolt despite his own best instincts. 

 

He opts for comfort, lying rigidly beside his best friend, who doesn’t turn around or offer anything else by way of explanation.  House pulls the sheets over his body, reveling in the difference between a $2000 mattress and Amber’s crappy couch.

 

It’s enough, he thinks to himself.  Enough closeness, enough progress.  He doesn’t need to push it any further.  This is something to appreciate, to wallow in a little bit.  They have time to enjoy the status quo. 

 

Were he to try for anything more, even if he succeeded in convincing Wilson that sex was somehow a logical step, even if he could convince himself, it might not be worth it. 

 

This, now, is the mayfly’s childhood, the part that seems to last forever when there’s no danger, just time to grow and develop.  If they cross that final barrier, any relationship would flame out and die as quickly as an adult fly.  Mere minutes or hours in comparison to a year, and House knows which he’d rather prolong.

 

He’s never had stability or routine, and for once in his miserable, self-destructive life, there is something he doesn’t want to ruin. 

 

And that was more than he had any right to hope for. 

  



End file.
